


Impostor

by WhatATime



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Batfamily Dynamics (DCU), Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne-centric, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: There is something wrong with this picture. There is something in this picture that shouldn't be there. No one is going to say anything.a.k.a. Damian Wayne feels out of place, and he probably is out of place, and no one says anything. Rough night.
Relationships: Damian Wayne & Everyone
Comments: 12
Kudos: 258





	Impostor

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, a long while (lol). 
> 
> Honestly, I haven't had the creativity to write a really good fic. I wrote some, but they weren't good, and I wasn't about to put out something I didn't like/wasn't proud of just to not look inactive. I've been working on side projects and other stuff. This fic is the first one I've liked in a while. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy.

It’s been a while since someone has said anything about it. It’s been a long while since someone has said anything about it. This long while doesn’t mean nothing happened, just that the consequences of what happened have not been said about by anyone. This manner is an awkward phrasing, but that is also purposeful. It must be beared with so that the point can be made. The point to be made is the precipice of a cliff upon which Damian Wayne sits.

His knees bent and pressed to his chest, he watches the lapping of two macabre mobiles of the bat on the sandy, relatively treeless terrain. The vehicles are both black, but one is charcoal and the other licorice. What’s happening here is simple:

Bruce Wayne and his ward Dick Grayson race Jason Todd and his orphan brides Tim Drake and Duke Thomas for the prize of both batmobiles. The winners will each take one to add to their collection. They race fast. They race quietly. They race cloistered.

Damian hears not even a swish as they wear an ovular track. He is so removed from this event that he wonders why he is here to witness it. He has no earpiece to gather the commentary nor a seat in either of the cars. All is quite dull, and the moonlight illuminates nothing but his cream bandaged wrapped sprained wrist and void surroundings.

Piping a whistle with an allergy tainted exhale, he bites the innards of his bottom lip and attempts to envisage what the rest of this early, post-patrol Saturday morning holds for him. A six-ounce mug of lukewarm hot chocolate? A bath in crystalized magnesium sulfate? A  _ Goodnight, Dames _ to smudge him into the background of the Wayne household like a thumb to the lead of a paper?

He would like to think that his immediate future holds more. But Experience has taught him that desires hold as little a place as dalliances in the life of the Son of the Bat and Grandson of the Demon. Biting his lip harder, he mourns the loss of something foreign, listens to the dirge the silence crowding him sings.

“How stupid,” he mutters.

The night goes on, every second tolling Damian and costing him his patience and calm. He is more than ready to go when his father and Dick are declared the winners by Fatgirl and Cassandra. It’s most likely his more-than-ready-to-go mien that gets him a bare backseat in one of the victor’s cars.

Thinking to doze, he closes his eyes leans his head against the window. When he opens them again, his vision is spotty as everyone crowds Pennyworth’s spread of sandwiches and soybean ice cream. Swiping the track of saliva from his chin, Damian slugs from the car and slumps up the stairs to his bedroom, slips into his nightwear and slides flat under his covers so that he’s not so easily seen.

It’s been a while since someone has said anything about it. It’s been a long while since someone has said anything about it. This long while doesn’t mean nothing happened, just that the consequences of what happened have not been said about by anyone. This manner is an awkward phrasing, but that is also purposeful. It must be beared with so that the point can be made, the point being that something’s wrong with this picture, but none of the subjects are going to figure it out. No, they have figured it out, and they aren’t going to say anything. That is the case:

There is something wrong with this picture. There is something in this picture that shouldn't be there. No one is going to say anything.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m the odd one out in my own family, always the butt of the joke or ousted from laughing at it. I’m very different from the rest of them, and I don’t fit in how I should. No one likes me. They like to use me, but they don’t like me. They don’t have to like me, and I don’t have to let them use me. Sometimes I just sink into the background because it’s easier than feeling out of place. Damian’s done the same because the author is projecting. Oh well. Life is sad. We’re all bitter. Over it I am getting. So yeah.


End file.
